The Holomen
by Roadstergal
Summary: Kryten is worried about Lister. Rimmer knows what's wrong. He's right, isn't he? Takes place after Out Of Time and before Tikka To Ride.
1. Chapter 1

Rimmer stepped back slightly, turning from side to side as he checked his appearance in the small mirror on the wall of his stark room. His uniform was pristine; from his neat, perfectly clean jacket, fingerprints buffed off of the clasps, to his properly napped trousers, to his spit-polished boots, he was the cardboard cutout of a model Space Corps officer. If he was going to be the only one on this grotty lander with any respect for decorum - and it certainly seemed that he was - he was determined to be absolutely impeccable. He patted his left-parted hair, his curls beaten into submission with gel he had stolen from the Cat, and adjusted his unadjustable H. Perfection. Ready for a medal-bestowing ceremony, Rimsy! His boots clicked satisfyingly on the metal floor - oh, the joys of hard-light! - as he strode up to the midsection.

"Changeover!" he said in a commanding voice as he poked his head into the kitchen. He might be the only person who found his voice commanding, but did the opinion of the space-bum, the bog-bot, and the brainless kitty count for smeg-all? Of course not. "Anything to report?"

Kryten leapt slightly as Rimmer spoke, juggling the carrot he had been halfheartedly jullienning. "Oh? What? Yes. No! No, everything is..." Kryten's voice crept up in pitch, and as he tried to force it back into its normal range, "...just fine!" came out as a wail.

Rimmer sighed. With that degree of upset, it must be something trivial. Kryten displayed a greater degree of consternation for a broken washing machine than he would for an alien monster gnawing at his nipple-nuts. "What is it, Kryten? Did the iron stop working? It's not like Lister ever _wears_ anything after you iron it. He says it ruins it. You're down to twenty ironed jumpsuits that he won't touch, and that one filthy one he wears all of the time and won't let _you_ touch."

"No, sir. The iron is just fine." Kryten took hold of himself and resumed chopping the carrot, slowly and deliberately.

"Then what is it, you batty laundromat on legs? The dryer? The sewing machine?" Patton, Rimmer thought desperately, did not have to deal with such things. He had subordinates to tend to both the laundry and the nutters. Did Alexander the Great spend his time on campaign inspecting domestic appliances and being appraised of the state of the port-a-loos?

"It's nothing." Kryten heaved a great sigh, and split the remainder of the carrot down the center with one heavy thud of the knife. "Everything's..." he swallowed, "_just fine_!"

"Kryten," Rimmer growled, "you are the most unconvincing liar since Nixon. What... is... wrong?"

Kryten dropped the knife. "Oh, it's Mister Lister!" Kryten wrung his hands. "He isn't eating, sir. He's sleeping badly. He's so thin and pale!"

Rimmer sniffed and gestured at the raw vegetable on the cutting board. "It's because you're trying to feed him actual food, Kryten. He doesn't eat that. You need to slop something overcooked and seasoned with enough spices to strip paint off of a footlocker on his plate in order to get him to slurp it down." Rimmer shrugged. "Well, it's good that you forgot that for a while. He could stand to lose a little weight."

Kryten waved his hand at Rimmer. It happened to be the hand that was holding the knife, and Rimmer danced backwards. "How can you say such things?" Kryten asked, looking as aghast as a Lego-headed robot can. "I _have_ tried to feed him curries! All of his favorites! I even whipped up a lager vindaloo last night. He's wasting away! And he'll get too thin, and die, and I'll be all alone again..." Kryten slumped back against the counter, drained.

"Is he?" Rimmer tapped his lip with one slender forefinger. Strange behavior? Preoccupation? Disinterest in food? Everything was starting to click into place. "Kryten." Rimmer stretched his face into a vulture grin. "I believe I have the solution to this quandary." A lesser man than Rimmer might have been offended by the skeptical look Kryten gave him. Fortunately, Rimmer was not one to pay attention to slights from inferiors. Especially when he had a tube of superglue in reserve that would give that inferior quite a surprise when he next plugged into his recharge socket.

"Very good," Kryten said, without even a token degree of sincerity. He turned back to his cutting board as Rimmer spun on his toe and strode out of the kitchen. He was followed by Kryten's voice, saying, just not-softly enough, "Oh dear."

------

Of course, Rimmer had to run his idea past someone else. Someone who could appreciate the originality of his thinking and his tendency for decisive, manly action. Someone who could offer useful constructive criticism. He ran his idea past her that evening - after the sex, needless to say. After a good, satisfying five minutes of sexual activity, Rimmer rolled onto his back and sighed, cuddling Rachel with one arm.

"Well," he said, "I actually have something important to talk about tonight, my dear." She waited in breathless, silent anticipation. "Kryten says that Lister is not eating or sleeping well," he continued, then paused. "Truth be told, he _has_ been looking too skinny, and a bit tired, but don't tell him I said that." Rimmer shifted, wondering if Lister were still seeing her behind his back. He dusted her for fingerprints every night, but Lister could be devious. He pushed those thoughts out of his mind. "Well, the answer to what's bothering him is obvious. Utterly obvious." Rimmer paused for effect. He had read many books on public speaking in preparation for his promotion to head of Z shift, and they had all mentioned the effectiveness of dramatic pauses. They were not always clear on how long they should last, however, and some pauses had been interrupted before he was quite done with them by snores or imitations of crickets chirping. However, he felt he had a handle on effective durations, at last.

"Aliens!" he said, dramatically. He turned his head, and Rachel's open-mouthed astonishment showed that his timing had been impeccable. He smiled smugly.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: The ending takes place just after the extended Tikka To Ride.**

Rimmer was too excited to sleep. He had much to do! He gently unwound himself from Rachel, tucked her in, and stood in front of the mirror to re-form his uniform. Nothing could be more certain; it was most _definitely_ aliens. They had some kind of hold on Lister, controlling his brain - such as it was - and as they were alien, they did not know that humans needed to eat and sleep. Hence, Lister's disrupted eating and sleeping patterns. It made perfect sense!

In order to act, however, Rimmer would need more data. The aliens _must_ meet with Lister physically at some point, to renew their hold over him and deliver their orders. Rimmer had read plenty of Rick Lazer comics, and had seen all of the movies. The aliens always met with the person under their control, giving Rick an opportunity to break their hold on him. Usually all that had been required was a public denunciation of the aliens, and they would flee; that was perfectly in keeping with Rimmer's abilities.

Lister never locked his room. Why on Io would he? There was nothing worth stealing in there, and even if there _were_ a diamond necklace at the bottom of the sock basket, it would be worth the sanity of any halfway intelligent being to try to fish it out. Rimmer wrinkled his nose in disgust as he tiptoed through the carelessly tossed-aside beer cans, socks, belts and, space help him, boxer shorts that littered the floor. His destination lay at the far end of the room - the closet where Kryten stocked spare linen for Lister's bed. Rimmer was certain that he would be undisturbed in _there_.

He had to stoop to fit between the pile of sheets on the bottom and the shelf holding pillowcases on top. He swung the door shut, and found that he was hideously uncomfortable - bent over like an old lady who takes ten minutes to get on the tube when you're late for an appointment, and shoulders crushed in to the point where his hands were dangling pointlessly in front of his crotch. There was no way he was going to keep that position for hours on end, and even if he did, what kind of a space hero would he look like, staggering out of the closet half-bent like Quasimodo on a night out? No, this would not do.

If there had been enough room in the closet for Rimmer to slap himself on the forehead, he would have done so. Instead, he concentrated and shifted to soft-light. He was then able to straighten upright. He did not like to have things passing through his projection, and it certainly felt odd to have the shelf extending through his mouth. Not to mention his arms out of sight, buried in the walls adjacent to the closet. But at least he wasn't cramped, and the excitement of the stakeout made up for the annoying numbness of soft-light.

His mind had started to drift from images of him ousting the evil aliens to the astonishment and acclaim of Starbug's crew on to images of buxom blonde Space Corps test pilots appearing from out of nowhere, eyeing him suggestively as they strode from their ships, their perky buttocks punching out those silvery flightsuits, when he was snapped back to reality by the voices of Cat and Lister.

"...possible. Aw, yeah, yeah, yeah!" Cat's words became discernable at the end of a sentence. Rimmer chewed on his lip. Very little was more annoying than the insolent feline's yowling voice. He ducked slightly to look through the vents in the closet door.

"Anyway, bud," Cat said, picking his way across the room with the easy grace that Rimmer loathed, "poker tonight? Ain't nothin' but empty space goin' on. And I feel," Cat grinned and twirled, "daaaangerous tonight!"

Lister trundled into view and sat wearily on his bunk. "Nah. Not tonight. I'm tired."

Cat turned back, putting one hand languidly on his hip. "What is the problem, bud? Your face is lookin' longer than my good bits these days."

Lister sighed, rubbing his forehead with a stubby-fingered hand. "Don't it bother you? Our future selves? Don't it bother you that you can turn into that?"

"You kidding, bud?" Cat sniffed. "Of course it bothers me! It's painful to know that my ass could ever be that big."

Lister dropped his hand. "I mean, how awful we were! Rimmer was ready to kill us!"

"I'm always ready to kill him. Only fair." Cat grinned. Rimmer considered strangling him. Then he decided strangling would be too quick, and considered poison. Or decapitation with an olive fork. Thoughts of the best way to kill a Cat kept him happily entertained for a good ten minutes, and when he was finally brought back to reality by the lights dimming, Cat was gone, and Lister was tossing and turning under his thin blanket. Rimmer snapped to alertness. Now was the time! The aliens would be visiting at any moment.

Rimmer watched Lister sleep, and noted the absence of aliens. The man writhed under his blanket, and aliens failed to appear. Rimmer sighed and stirred uncomfortably. How long would it take the aliens to smegging arrive?

Lister started to moan, thrashing about more vigorously. He gasped variants on, "No, no, ge' away..." which became louder and louder, until he finally sat bolt upright in bed with a yelp of "Arnold, no!" He panted, wide-eyed, sweat running down his face. Once he had caught his breath, he swung his legs over the side of the bunk, stepped into his boots, and padded of the room.

Rimmer frowned. There had been no aliens. What the smeg was wrong? He had been so sure there were aliens! Rimmer cast his mind back and pondered his train of logic. It was airtight. But his eyes had provided the evidence - Lister had dreamed his nightmare and left the room, and no aliens had stopped by to regain control over him.

The solution to the quandary finally occurred to Rimmer. His presence had frightened them away! They had sensed his determination, and given up their hold on Lister. The bad dream had been a symptom of the mind-control fading. Feeling very proud of himself, Rimmer ducked below the shelf, pulled his arms close, changed to hard-light, and stumbled out of the closet. He sighed and stretched, appreciating that the darkness of the room made it harder to see what a mess it was. Then he worried what the darkness might be covering, and darted out of the room.

Once out, Rimmer paused, folded his arms behind his back, stuck his chest out, and strode up to the midsection, feeling very pleased with himself. Lister sat at the midsection table in his T-shirt and boxers, smoking a cigar pensively, and looking, Rimmer thought, decidedly un-alien-controlled. "Up late?" he asked the man, flaring his nostrils and smirking.

Lister turned and looked searchingly at Rimmer, sucking on the cigar. Rimmer stared, feeling the snarky grin fade from his face as Lister stared at him, unblinking. "Yeh," Lister said, finally, the word punctuated by a plume of smoke flowing from his mouth. "I'm doin' just great, man."

Rimmer began to wonder if it really was _entirely_ due to aliens.

------

Blasted smegging goit of a jackarse dickless gormless bloody smegging bitch of a bogbot. Rimmer sat on the midsection table and fumed. If he had arms, he growled internally, he would reprogram that mechanoid with a blowtorch. The reason he did not have arms was because that bloody mechanical had, under the pretense of running diagnostics on Rimmer's light bee ("You look a bit pasty and weak, sir, almost like you're about to suffer an electronic aneurism - how do you feel?") convinced Rimmer to turn his projection off - and then, instead of hooking him to the computer, had placed him on the midsection table and run after the back section of Starbug, re-attaching it and retrieving Lister.

Rimmer seethed on the table as Kryten sat Lister down at the table for a midday curry, while Lister and Cat laughed and chatted inanely. He continued to seethe as Kryten cleaned the table during lunch, wiping his bee with a chamois and placing it carefully back without turning it back on.

Lister noted this and frowned. He did nothing until he had finished eating, however, when Kryten had retreated to the kitchen to do the dishes and Cat had gone to the cockpit to pilot. Lister then picked up the ovoid. "Rimmer? That you?" He flicked the On switch and tossed the bee away as Rimmer re-formed.

Rimmer grabbed his uniform and straightened it with a jerk that nearly ripped it off. "I am going to shove Kryten's head into the solid-waste recyc!" he spat.

Lister grinned and sat back down. "I was wonderin' where yeh were. Everything seemed so nice and quiet."

Rimmer's lip twisted. "What are you looking so smegging happy about?" Well, he had his curries again, didn't he, courtesy of the time-drive that still lurked on the table. Rimmer glared at it.

"Well, I got me curries back." Lister's broad grin faded somewhat. "And we haven't gotten any visits, have we?"

Rimmer cocked his head. Visits? What the smeg was Lister going on about? Who the smegging hell would visit them? Relatives popping by for tea, then sitting around in the living room and not taking the dropped hints about things they needed to get to doing?

Rimmer had never actually seen a large building destroyed. He had seen video of it, however, and he was always rather charmed with the way the building would stand, for just a moment, after the charges had gone off, smugly thinking that it had survived the little blasts before suddenly, with all of the evidence of a rather horrid surprise, collapsing ignobly in upon itself. Rimmer's thought processes did something very, very similar. Finally, he regained control of his half-open mouth. "So, that was one of the points of this little _exercise_, was it? To see if I would come back in time and try to kill all of us again?"

Lister shrugged uncomfortably. "Just wanted to know."

Rimmer picked up the drive and hefted it in his hands. Lister jerked it away and put it at the far end of the table, a look of disgust on his face. Rimmer put his hands on his hips. "Why do you care?" he snapped.

"I wanted ta know if the smeghead would kill the nice guy inside, in the future." A faint, lopsided grin tugged at his face as he watched Rimmer. "The nice guy inside is someone that I could actually... ya know... get along with. You know I don't like the smeghead."

No, he didn't, did he. But Rimmer _was_ that smeghead, damn it. If Lister didn't like him - well, that was his own problem. Feeling an odd sense of wounded pride, Rimmer spun on his toe and started to stalk out of the midsection.

Lister hopped from his seat and grabbed Rimmer's elbow. The hologram paused, but did not look around. "Hey, we're having poker night. Hang out a while. I promise I won't sneak off and shag Rachel behind your back again."

Rimmer turned to face an innocently beaming Lister. He shrugged. "She's a tart. She's slept with everybody, I think. I disinfected her once Kryten patched her puncture."

Lister giggled "Think about spendin' your time with someone who cares about you a little more, maybe." He walked back to the storage lockers on the side of the midsection, pulling out a deck of cards.

Rimmer looked at the pack in Lister's gloved hands and arched an eyebrow. "Someone who cares wouldn't use their own marked deck."

Lister winked. "Well, it's strip poker tonight..."

_------_

_"Is it always strip poker?"  
"Well, that depends on how drunk we are."  
"And on how much curry he's had!"  
-Holoship_


	3. Epilogue

**A/N: This takes place between Epideme and Nanarchy.**

Rimmer always said I had no ambition. Yeah, I had none of _his_ ambition, to step on other people and claw my way up to some precious smegging officerhood; if that's what ambition is, he can keep the corner on _that_ smeg. No, I've always just wanted to be happy, and to make other people happy while I'm workin' on me own happiness. That's what it's all been about; Fiji and horses and cows and a doughnut stand, and Kochanski in a white dress, and us havin' big laughin' twin boys. That's a happy dream, that; one that makes _everyone_ happy, not just me, and nobody can say otherwise. Not even Rimmer, sneer though he might (and he did).

That's why it bothered me so much to see what we turned into. I mean, consortin' with the Hitlers and Louis the Sixteenth? Even Arnold Judas smegging Patton wasn't that bad when he killed off all of them wax droids. At least he was tryin' to do something good, even if he did smeg it up as only Rimmer can. But nah, here I had to look at me future self, and see a heartless jerk! Well, everything-less, really. Two of me three favorite body parts, gone, just like that.

And do I worry about how that happened? Yeah, keeps me up at night, sometimes. See, that future Rimmer was so quick to want to kill us; like we really _was_ rats, in his eyes, and didn't deserve to live. Did I try to stop 'im, at some point in the past, and got that bodyectomy? Well, it did me heart good to see Rimmer - I mean, the current Rimmer, the one he was at the time - be ready to die rather than turn into _that_. And he did. We all did.

But it still bothered me. Change can kinda sneak up on ya, until you look back and wondered how you ever got from where you were to where you are. Rimmer, for one; he's not the same smeghead he used to be. Well, hell, if you had told me back in them early days that he would run off to be a space hero, I would have given myself a hernia laughin'. But he did - or at least, he was ready to try. That bugs me even more. Because I've changed, too. Sendin' him off like that - it wasn't a death sentence, but it sure was something kinda dicey. In a job like that, you're either a hero pretty quick-like, or you're a smashed bee orbitin' a pink planet. I like to think that I did it for him. But he was startin' to like it here; after all of the time that mess of a man spent tryin' to change things, tryin' to change _us_, he had finally changed enough _himself_ that he was gettin' to fit in a bit. I still worried, though. Worried that the fat git in the yellow suit was still lurking in his future somewhere, staring at his past self with disgust in his little piggy eyes. This Ace thing... it came along just at the right time. Or the wrong one. That was a way to break our destiny line, fer sure; make sure him, at least, didn't turn out like that. So it was a good thing to do in the end, wasn't it?

I wonder about that, sometimes. I kinda thought it would mark a turnin' point for all of us. Do somethin' good for Rimmer, and it would come back for us. But it all came back wrong, didn't it? I got my Kochanski - but she's not my Kochanski, and I'm not her Dave. It was just too easy, and nothing too easy works out.

Yeah, I wonder, sometimes. When I'm lying in my bunk half-asleep, and I don't want to wank partly because I always liked my right hand better, and partly because you shouldn't have to wank when there are two consentin' adults who are the last of the human race on one lander. My right arm gets to itchin', usually, and while I lie there wondering how you scratch an arm that's long been incinerated and thrown out of the waste disposal, I think that maybe the whole Ace thing was too easy, just the same as the Kochanski thing. I wonder if, when he said he wasn't sure if he could do this, that maybe it wasn't his normal cowardice speakin'. Maybe it was friendship, closeness - hell, love? Not a word I'd have used in the past, but like I said - we changed. Maybe trustin' that slow change was the harder way of goin' about things. The way that would have worked out better. The way that wouldn't have left me like this, so very lonely after gettin' my dream-girl.

Well, dreams are for sleepin'. Maybe I shoulda stuck with reality.


End file.
